


East of the Sun, West of the Moon

by Sapphicmoonchild



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Comfort eventually, I stole the turtle thing from Moana, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Inspired by East of the Sun West of the Moon, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Poverty, The North Child version, google translate french, loosely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 22:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10773984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphicmoonchild/pseuds/Sapphicmoonchild
Summary: Alexander Hamilton is desperate. His mother is ill, he and his brother are starving, and death looms for all of them. So when John Laurens offers his family an extravagant sum of money in exchange for Alexander's 'companionship', Alex has no choice but to accept.Loosely inspired by the Norwegian fairy-tale, but instead of being a polar bear, John just has super internalized homophobia and considers himself a monster because of his sexuality. Cheery.





	East of the Sun, West of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Alex's mother is French an Alex grew up speaking the language. As such, Alex will sometimes use French words, however I'll include English translations in brackets to avoid confusion.

**_Alexander:_ ** _Latinised form of the Greek name Αλεξανδρος (Alexandros), meaning “Defender of men”_

**Alexander**

I could pretend I felt guilty about the trouble I caused as a child. I could hang my head and weep over my misadventures, compose a prolonged, spurious apology for my ‘misspent’ youth. I could do any and all of these things, but I have no particular inclination to do so: neither regret nor necessity compel me to fake grievance over any perceived slights.

I was a feral child, my mother too pre-occupied and far too destitute to keep me from the wilderness of the Caribbean streets. I had more fights than friends, spending more time in brawls than at the beach bordering Charlestown.

I felt no shame at the blood I spilt, or at the broken bones I occasionally sported. My mother’s worry evoked no sympathy; I loved her dearly, and I am neither cold nor unfeeling, but I always found the provocations more than warranted the consequences of these confrontations. Perhaps my youthful tenacity and reckless indignation continue to blind me, but I still feel a righteous justification for every altercation. The only result of these disputes that made me feel even remotely remorseful was the expression on my dearest brother’s face when he would find me, bruised and bloodied, afterwards. James was ceaselessly patient, more of a paternal figure than a brother even before our real father deserted the family. He would sigh, exasperated, with a sense of disappointment that even as a child I was not blind to, before dusting me off and carting me back to _notre mère_ (our mother) _._

I drove poor mama to near madness with the my violent ‘disagreements’ with the village boys. In fairness, they deserved it, calling my mother cruel words I didn’t yet understand, _putain_ (whore) and _bitch,_ calling me a _bastard_ and my beloved family _écume (scum)._ She would beg me not to retaliate, to hold my head up high and rise above it, before apologising kindly to the bullies in my stead. She was a noble woman, with a higher opinion of children than they deserved. Despite her sweet nature and misplaced tenderness, my mother was terrified at the alarmingly real danger my unbridled mouth and my eagerness to resort to violence put me in.

Her solution was to try and find me a hobby: She imagined a past-time would distract me and keep me away from miscreant youths. She had James attempt to teach me the various activities he so adored: I was forced through a wide spectrum of sports, as well as climbing, sailing, shooting, fencing, fishing, whittling and carvery. In the hyper-masculine world of immature pre-adolescent boys, these seemed the only hobbies available to me. I enjoyed, or at least tolerated, the majority of them – but most of them required me to go outside, and some of them that I interact with the other children. This was the exact opposite of what my mother had intended, and so she lovingly lured me back into the home with domestic tasks. Cooking, cleaning, polishing, washing – they were all necessary skills, but an energetic boy such as myself could only be detained with them for so long. I quickly tired of all these chores, and would escape back into the alleyways, another urchin scrapping for a fight. She despaired that I would never be content in her protection, that I would never be satisfied in our home. That is, until two miniscule things happened that irrevocably changed the course of my life – although I was yet to know it.

 

The first happened at home. It was a warm night, even for the Caribbean, and James and I were lazily playing in the stifling heat. At this point, our father was still living with us, but he rarely came back at an hour of the night James and I would be up, so he wasn’t there to prevent the life changing occurrence. My mother was in a corner, illuminated by soft candlelight, and was what I later knew to be ‘darning socks’. She made a noise, or perhaps I just imagined it, but for whatever reason I was compelled to look up at her, _just_ as she was completing her magic.

“Do it again.” I pleaded, agog, eyes wide saucepans as I stared.

“Do what?” She asked, amused but genuinely bewildered at my amazed tone.

“Make the holes disappear again.” I commanded, mystified, staring at the strange silvery wand she held to complete the enchantment.

My mother, realising what I meant and utterly bemused, picked up another sock – one of my fathers- and proceeded to sew the garment back together. The hole that had been worn through at the big toe disappeared before my eyes, and I was in stunned awe at this strange power.

“How do you do it?” I begged, curious and utterly amazed. My mother warred between the urge to satisfy this new interest in the domestic arts, and worry about small children with sharp objects and father’s reaction to my actually wanting to learn feminine tasks. Eventually, the desire to teach me something that would keep me at home won out, and she gave me my first sewing lesson. This first lesson sparked a life-long passion for sewing. For a few short years, my entire world seemed to be centred around the pull of thread; At first, I struggled to mend even one hole, pricking myself countless times and swearing more profusely than a boy of that age should be able to, but soon I felt a sense of mastery over such basic jobs. In time, I progressed from simple sewing to mend our threadbare outfits to cross-stitching and knitting, rare opportunities gifted to me on holidays by my loving mother, who took up another cleaning job to scrape together money for the materials. I sewed at home, I was protected at home, and this was reason enough for her to ardently encourage me in this endeavour.

 

The second life-changing incident, though perhaps equally fated, appeared less co-incidental. I was a young boy, of no wealth perhaps, but a young child never the less, and I needed to be taught basic reading and writing. The neighbours I had, in the little shanty-town my family inhabited, all attended the free Catholic school arranged by the local church. I assumed this was where I was to be educated to, but James, and later I myself, were denied entry due to the ‘circumstances of our conception’. Our parents being unmarried, a rumoured prostitute and a known drunk, we were denied entry at the holy institution. My mother, as always, fretted as to where we would be educated, and our saviour came as a Jewish school on the other side of the city that was willing to take us in. It was a considerable walk, through blistering weather, but I adored it at once. Reading granted a freedom, an enlightenment the physical world could not, and writing proved a greater love still, my chance to express my innermost self and every thought I deemed worthy. The azure seas, golden sand, emerald forest proved nothing compared to the infinite beauty of written words. Literature was my lover, and it was an affair whole-heartedly enabled by the friendly headmistress. My mother seemed prouder than ever when she read my works- but paper and ink were more expensive than the thin threads mother bought for me to sew with so this new passion was more considerably constricted. She hoped, and many expected, my new-found eagerness for the written word would keep me contained at the desk at home – but the opposite seemed equally true, as I spent more time than ever before exploring my tropical home for inspiration. It was in this regard that I hold my writing responsible for my presence on the beach the day that - …. well, we’ll get to that.

It was early morning in June; I was, as my mother said, ‘entering manhood’ and I had wandered to the beach to watch the golden ripples of the sun on the waves. It was beautiful, in the way sun rises are, and I was already beginning to write an ode to it in my mind, adoring laudations spinning through my skull and flowing to my fingertips, ready to be recorded as soon as I returned home. The sand was soft under my toes and I stepped into the cool water, allowing myself a childish laugh before I swivelled back in the direction of the slums.

It was then that I noticed it – a Leatherback hatchling, smaller even than my tiny palms. They were not the most common species, but prevalent enough, and I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if it wasn’t so clearly in distress. A small flock of seabirds had gathered around it’s shattered egg, and were about to descend and eat it. Flinching at the thought of such a fate, I ran to save it, scooping it up gently and helping it to the water.

It swam away quickly, and I smiled at the sight.

“That was very nice of you.”

I turned to see the origin of the warm voice, finding a man watching me curiously. His smile was friendly and gentle, but he appeared bent under the weight of some great sadness. He was handsome, beautiful really, and I blushed at my attraction. His face was spread with freckles, each a star in the galaxy of his skin, and he seemed ethereal, celestial as he was illuminated by the morning rays.

“It – it was the least I could do.” I stuttered, shamed by these thoughts, although I returned the smile as kindly as I could manage.

“Was it a Hawksbill?” He inquired, peering speculatively into the sea as if it would return the turtle for his inspection.

“A Leatherback.” I replied, and he glanced at me, surprised. “There are fewer of them, but they’re found often enough. You should try Cades bay, if you wanted to see a Hawksbill – they nest there this time of year, although you’d have to wait a few months for the eggs to hatch-” I cut myself off, keenly aware I was rambling.

_He won’t want to listen to you Hamilton – god you’re so stupid. Stupide, stupide, stupide._

The man didn’t seem as disgusted with my incoherent speaking as I was – in fact, he seemed delighted at my words.

“You are very knowledgeable about turtles, sir. I myself am exceedingly interested in them – perhaps an interest you share.” His voice was like honey, and he was notably more well-spoken than any man I had met on the island. He had the slightest hint of an accent, too faint to be identifiable. A tourist then.

“I am interested in a great number of things, sir.” I responded vaguely, too enraptured with his eyes to call up my usual eloquence. “I beg your pardon, but I must return home...” I trailed off, desperate for him to give me some sign he would allow me to do so.

_I was pathetic, to be so enraptured with a **man**._

“Of course. I should thank you for your advice, Mr….?” Despite the question being aimed at me, he turned to the ocean as he asked it. His sadness had returned, I noted, and felt a twinge of guilt.

“Alexander, sir. Alexander Hamilton.”

“John Laurens.”

Our eyes met again, and we shared a smile for some indeterminable length of time.

“It has been a pleasure, _Monsieur Laurens_.” I nodded in acknowledgement, strangely breathless, and fled back to home.

_Mother will protect me from beautiful men with soft voices and captivating eyes._

Some years passed, and I was now a bright young man in my own right. At twenty years of age, I was now in what  _mère_ once dubbed 'the prime years of my youth'. My mother was still a cleaner, James was working tirelessly as a carpenter’s apprentice, and I myself had taken a job as a clerk for our landlord, helping out at the tailors in an effort to make ends meet.

It was not enough.

Mother, my dearest mama, had grown deathly ill from the enormity of her workload. The sicker she became, the further into poverty we fell, until she was confined to her bed with a roaring fever and it was all we could do to pay our rent in time. It was with a dreaded certainty James and awaited her death, and our own starvation soon afterwards. We were beyond hope, nearly beyond help, weakening day by day and night by night.

It was one such night that the deliverance we had been waiting for came. A terrible storm was raging outside, and inside our shack we were freezing and terrified. It was the sort of night where Death himself prowled the streets, carried by the howling winds to pray upon unfortunate souls.

A knock on the door broke me out of my haunting thoughts, and I feared for a moment Death had heard me and had come to take my mama away. I was too afraid, too _surprised_ , to open the door, so James, the braver of us two, took the initiative.

In the doorway, sopping wet but retaining the upmost elegance, was none other than John Laurens.

It had been years since I had seen him but he had not aged a day, his skin the same expanse of nebula, his body still weighed down by a deep sadness, although it had lessened. It was his smile that I remembered; warmer than the Caribbean summers and friendlier than any had ever looked at me, a bastard son-of-a-whore, in my life.

“ _Monsieur Laurens?”_ I couldn’t help but gasp in shock as James ushered him in.

“Mr Hamilton,” he exclaimed, equally shocked by my recognition, “I did not expect that you’d remember-“He cut himself off, not sure how to proceed.

“Do you know this man, Alexander?” James questioned in an attempt to fill the awkward silence growing between the three of us.

“Ah, yes, _oui,_ I met him a few years ago on the beach.” I frowned, blushing at how.... insubstantial this seemed, but unable to justify my strong recollection of a man I only saw once.

“Yes, Mr Hamilton was rescuing a hatchling turtle from a flock of seabirds.” John **_\- Monsieur Laurens_** – smiled brighter at the memory, his eyes meeting mine. “I was struck by the kindness and humility he showed, and so I …. I wondered if he could show me a kindness also. Of course, I’m willing to compensate-” He seemed flushed, suddenly unsure of how to proceed.

“How do you mean, _sir?_ ” James asked, his tone bordering aggressive, as I indignantly exclaim “I am not a _charity case_ , **_sir_** ,” somehow unable to bear the thought of this man thinking badly of me.

“ ** _No, no_** _,_ I did not mean to imply-  Of course I didn’t mean to say-“ He seemed as nervous and awkward as I was, cheeks as red as my own. “You see, I have recently left my family home, and I am in need of a – _companion_. If Mr Hamilton agrees to move in with me at my new place of residence, I will pay you with-“ Instead of finishing the sentence verbally, he handed me a large envelope. Curiosity piqued and unable to resist, I opened the seal to peek inside.

 _Mon Dieu (My God)._ Instead of a letter, the sleeve contained banknotes. More money than I could ever dream of – perhaps more than the entire island collectively possessed. We could call for the finest surgeon from the mainland to treat mama, we could buy one of the mansions she used to clean and live in luxury for the rest of our days –

No. _Not ‘ **we** ’_. I would have to leave my family, to live with a stranger, who paid an unprecedented sum for a man he didn’t know and wanted for _God_ knows what purpose. I was struck by a memory from my childhood, of mother bringing a man home, sending me and James to the beach as she led him to her bedroom. I pushed these thoughts out of my head – even if he were that way inclined, a man as handsome as he could find a far prettier partner without paying a lifetime’s worth of wages for him, indeed without having to pay anything at all. He wouldn’t want _me_ to warm his bed. But why then? My mind, although sharper than perhaps any on the island, was certainly not in the same league as that of a college graduate. My tailoring skills were mediocre, without any considerable practise; and there was nothing else I was good enough at that would warrant any payment, let alone a sum so large. I shuddered, dreading to imagine what sadistic desires the man must possess, to have to pay so much to convince me to go with him. _He might kill me. He might do **worse.**_

“Sir, if you honestly believe that I would sell my own _brother_ into _slavery_ -“

“I’ll do it.” I gasped, barely able to force the words out for my fear.

“ _What?”_ I couldn’t tell whether it was James or Laurens that spoke, perhaps both – they were both gaping at me in shock.

“I accept your offer, sir, and thank you for the generosity you have shown me by making such a considerable offer.” I looked him in the eyes, trying to appear as grateful as possible. “I am of course willing to leave with you now, if you so wish it, however if I may be permitted to impeach on your kindness further, leaving with you tomorrow would give me time to say my goodbyes and pack more thoroughly for our departure.” I pleaded, not being able to bear the thought of going away forever without seeing mama one last time, but unable to risk the offer that guaranteed my family’s well-being.

“ _Of **course.**_ ” Laurens breathed, staring at me wide-eyed with a strangely heart-breaking expression of hope and the strangest appearance of shock, as if I could afford to refuse the money. “ _Of course_ you can say goodbye to your family – I _wouldn’t – I would never treat you as cruelly as to –“_

I tried my best to smile at him appreciatively, attempting to express my relief at being permitted to have a night with my family one last time, but I felt too weighed down by the sickening dread of what awaited me, serving him.

“Then I shall see you again tomorrow night, _Monsieur.”_

James pleaded with me to change my mind, to refuse his offer when he returned, but I could not. I had made up my mind, and I could only beg his forgiveness and wish him well in the future.

“Alexander, you are my brother, how can you expect me to let you go, endure such permanent separation?” He begged.

“James, you know as well as I that his money will save us all. Besides, a man who is willing to pay so much for a servant-“ I hesitated to use the word s _lave,_ although that is what I would be, “is surely generous and kind enough to permit me to write.”

James could argue with me no further, although we both knew deep down that such a display was not guaranteed – in fact, such a request would likely get me beaten for impertinence and James would not insist that I make it.

We could only send for the most prestigious doctor on the island to treat mama, who bundled her in blankets and gave us more bottles of medicine than the apothecary in the slums had in his entire shop.  They were numerable but effective, and by the next day her fever had already receded enough that she could speak clearly.

James took it upon himself to explain the origin of our new found wealth to her, in an attempt to save me from further pain, although I wished he had waited until after I had left when she stared sobbing and demanding I not leave. Despite having gotten all we had wanted, and more besides, I was with a great solemnity we dined that day, on a feast fit for Kings that tasted like mud in our mouths.

After dinner, I washed thoroughly in the bath we had not been able to afford to use in months. The boiling water burned the grime from me, and I scrubbed myself with lotions and conditioners that I had bought for myself that day in town. I was the freshest, the cleanest I had been in my life, smelling of passion fruit of pomegranate, but I still felt unspeakably dirty. I imagined it could only be the shame of being sold and owned. I dressed myself in the finest and cleanest clothes I owned, which were fitting for both manual labour and appropriate for desk work, and packed all the rest of my possessions into a single bag. I feared that my clothes wouldn’t be respectable enough for Mr Laurens employment – _surely a man with so much money to spend held even his lowliest of slaves to a higher standard of dress than I was wearing_ – I tried to comfort myself, insisting that if there was a required uniform he would supply it, but I was unable to escape the sickening lurch of my stomach. _He had paid so much for me, surely he would expect me to come prepared. I can’t even ask him to take me to the shops, I can’t waste any more of his time and risk worsening his anger._

Finally, after what felt of years of worrying and trying to hold back my tears, I hear a knock at the door. I gave mama a deep hug, kissed James on the cheek, then left to meet my new master.

“Mr Hamilton, it is - it is _wonderful_ to see you again. I trust that you’re still willing to accept my offer?” He seemed so genuinely questioning, as if his willingness to hire a worker as _pathetic_ as me for such a generous sum wasn’t a miracle I would eternally be indebted to him for.

“ _Of course I am willing,_ sir. I have my bag prepared – I imagine you will want to leave as soon as possible.” I lowered my eyes to my feet, the deference I had seen slaves how to their masters frequently before. I couldn’t upset him by being insolent, _not ever,_ and certainly not _now._

“Is this all you want to bring?” He seemed distressed by this, at my meagre belongings, and I quickly moved to appease him.

“I have brought a number of changes of clothing, sir, as well as writing materials and my sewing equipment. If there is anything else you expect me to need, I can quickly collect it, however – however I am uncertain as to the tasks required in my employment with you, sir, and so I can only apologise if I have not adequately prepared.” I kept my tone and posture as subservient as possible, in the hopes this will soften the blow my words may have.

“ _Tasks-_ I – that will be more than adequate for me, Mr Hamilton, if it satisfies you.” His tone was infinitely more gentle than my own, which I found somewhat alarming. He gently reached out for my arm, looking at me as if to ask permission. “May I help you to the carriage?”

I allowed him to take my arm in his hand as he led me to a coach the size of some houses in this area. It was light, ornately decorated with what appeared to be carvings of turtles – _of course_ – and yet it seemed to me the dark delivery of my doom.

“If you wish to, sir.” I replied, feeling this was the only correct response to the man who now legally owned me, body and mind.

“Mr Hamilton – I – I wonder if you may permit me to call you Alexander.” He asked, as if he needed permission.

“If you feel it best, _Maître (Master).”_ I answered, my distraction with his suspicious gentleness causing me to slip to my mother’s native tongue.

“ _Alexander,_ I want you to know that I don’t want anything from you but your happiness. I – I meant what I said when I visited you yesterday; I want a _companion_ , a **_friend_**. My staff are wonderful, but I’m lonely, and – I hold you in a very high regard, surely you must know this, and I don’t expect you to do anything more _after you’ve left your family for me-_ “

“You have paid more than is needed, more than is _generous_ , for me sir. You have rescued my family from destitution, and you have my _upmost_ gratitude, esteem, and indeed servitude. If it is a - _companion –_ you want, sir, then I shall endeavour to be the best companion possible.” I choked on the word companion, the nightmares I had not allowed myself to believe being realised. He has then taken me, skinny and undesirable as I am, as a **_whore._** I dread to think his tastes in bed if he had to resign himself to having me at an immense price; the man who is to be my first – _partner –_ must be cruel indeed.

I felt tears swell in my eyes as he settled me into the carriage. Two rows of seating ran either side, both as wide and long as a bed. Plush blue velvet cushioned these panels, and there was even a soft carpet on the floor space between the rows.   _Dear God, is my first coupling to be in the back of this man’s carriage?_ John sat on the row opposite me, slightly to my left so our knees didn’t touch. His driver, a man I hadn’t noticed in my panic, closed the door and presumably mounted the driver’s seat. A few moments later we began moving and I turned away from the windows so I wouldn’t have to watch my family disappear from my sight. I instead watched my _Maîtriser,_ awaiting any movement that would indicate he was going to – to – to _touch_ me.

“ _For_ you? Alexander, you _can’t_ think that I – I – I took you as a _slave_.” He appeared horrified, but I was not taken in by this display. His sensibilities may be delicate enough he may prefer not to call me as such, but he would not hesitate to punish me as such if I displeased him in any way. I felt it best that I play along with him.

“Of course not, sir. You have taken me on as a – a _friend._ You have made that perfectly clear, and I thank you for the candour you have displayed to me.” I met his eyes as I emphasized friend, trying to convey to him I was aware of what my duties would entail, and my willingness to meet them.

He seemed relieved at my words, although still slightly uncomfortable. “You – you don’t have to call me sir. John would suffice.”

“Of course, _John_.” It feels wrong to call him by his given name, but as he requested it, I must.

He smiles at me, warm and more content than I have seen him yet.

“You look tired, Alexander. You can sleep, if you want – I’ll wake you when we get home.”

I feel sickened by his use of the word home, a place I’ll never be again, and equally repulsed by the thoughts of what he could do to me when I was defenseless in sleep; but I _was_ tired, and didn’t want to anger him, so I didn’t try to fight the darkness at the edges of my vision.

As I descended into a fitful slumber, I thought I felt the briefest press of lip against my forehead. Then, there was nothing.


End file.
